CHRISTMAS
John Betjeman (1906-1984)

Last December, I featured T.S. Eliot's Journey of The Magi, which is by far my favorite Christmas poem; Eugene Field's Jest 'Fore Christmas, one of the great American seasonal classics; and Thomas Hardy's The Oxen, a lesser known work, but still one of the best Christmas poems ever written. This year, on the theory that this poetry project of mine will be around for many more Christmases to come, I thought that one seasonal verse would do, so I chose the appropriately named poem, Christmas, by that giant of a poet, John Betjeman.

Betjeman ranks among the finest modern day English language poets. He was an immensely well-loved and well-known public figure in England during his life, thought by many to be that nation's most popular 20th century poet laureate. In reviewing numerous articles about Betjeman and his work, I decided that the following sentences, the first from the Cambridge Guide to Literature in English and the second from Benet's Reader's Encyclopedia, together do a near perfect job of pithily describing the poet whose work I have come to love over the years. This from the Cambridge Guide:

Technically conservative and deceptively simple in its reliance on regular rhythms and well-worn rhymes, his poetry creates a wry comedy of middle-class life and aspirations that is shot through with sadness.

And this from Benet's:

In satirical light verse, Betjeman's poems celebrate the English countryside and ordinary provincial and suburban life. They nostalgically evoke the Victorian era and a past or passing English culture.

As these sentences indicate, Sir John was a "conservative," in the sense that he cherished the permanent things about English life and the English people, and in doing so he gently reminded us Americans of our permanent debt to his country and his countrymen.

Please enjoy this wonderful Christmas poem. I pray that you all will have a great holiday season and very happy New Year.

Christmas

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain.
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hooker's Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that villagers can say
'The Church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial public houses blaze
And Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad,
And Christmas morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true? And is it true?
The most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant.

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was Man in Palestine
And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.


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